Australia’s highest trout
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The ‘pinnacle’ is a weird concept. It tends to be subjective, and hotly contested in any given field. The pinnacle of fly fishing isn’t in Australia. Moreover, the pinnacle of fly fishing in Australia probably isn’t in New South Wales (though some of the Snowy Mountain and Snowy Valley die hards would contest this). Nevertheless, the pinnacle is something that demands pursuit, and within the constraints of living and working in Canberra, New South Wales was likely to be the target.
So was hatched the plan to find the highest trout in Australia. Not the most impressive, most remote, or most challenging. Certainly not the largest. But the highest trout in the land was something we could tackle in our backyard, and represented a pinnacle in its own right.
“We were all sceptical that trout could get that high, especially given the rapid fall of the river off the western escarpment. Nonetheless, it was worth investigating, and broadened our search area to two catchments.”
The stage was obvious – the Kosciuszko National Park hosts Australia’s highest peaks, and has an abundance of fishable water. Out came the maps, and candidate waterways were quickly identified around the Charlotte’s Pass and Perisher areas. The Snowy has fish, everyone knows that, and its headwaters are due east of the highest point on the Australian mainland. The track to Mt Kosciuszko from Charlotte Pass crosses the top of the Snowy and a notable tributary in Merritts Creek, not long before the two converge further down the valley. The Snowy flows North and East off the main range, before hooking southward bound for Gippsland. Tumbling off in the other direction is the Swampy Plains River. It eventually joins the Geehi, then the Murray below Khancoban. But its head is Lake Cootapatamba, a shallow and exposed tarn within a kilometre of the summit of Mt Kosciuszko. We were all sceptical that trout could get that high, especially given the rapid fall of the river off the western escarpment. Nonetheless, it was worth investigating, and broadened our search area to two catchments.
Multiple catchments to explore demanded a whole day (at least) to cover the requisite ground and water, which in turn necessitated a night under canvas. For all three of the party, this would certainly be the highest camp we’d ever made, and even in late February, threatened to be properly cold. Adding to the challenge, one in the party had hurt their knee a couple of week prior, and wasn’t going to be hiking the requisite 8ks from Charlotte Pass to where we planned to camp. Thus accommodations were made so they could ride their mountain bike, recently adorned with a set a panniers, and for the remaining two to walk.
We headed down the Monaro Highway on a Friday night, after a slightly premature conclusion to the work day. Capitalising on the long daylight, we were at the Charlotte Pass carpark by 5:30pm, and on the trail shortly thereafter. It felt like a surprisingly long trudge onto the rooftop of Australia, perhaps due in part to the few non-essential items in packs. If it was a trudge for those of us on foot, it was more of an ordeal for the one on two wheels, powering a fully loaded bike for the first time. The long, steady, but unrelenting climb from the crossing of the Snowy up to Seamans Hut was a particular challenge.
Needless to say, despite the tight timeline, we found a half hour to inspect the river where it met our path. Shallow and exceptionally clear at this high altitude, the headwaters of the Snowy were full of life. Tiny fish moved about in groups quite unconcerned by our presence on the banks. Promising, though the elevation still before us and the threat of dwindling sunlight prevented the rods from being threaded.
Our camp was made, and made complete by the highest gin and tonic and pale ales in the nation. The moment the sun dipped below the ridge to our west the temperature dropped, and within half an hour a thick fog rolled into the valley. We had parked ourselves next to the tents on some boulders, but after the fog descended, we lost sight of tents not ten metres away. A valuable reminder of the dynamism of high country conditions, and the risks associated even in high summer.
It seemed right to start our physical search the same way as our map inspection: from the top, so we climbed to the summit in the dark the following morning and were treated to an extraordinary sunrise. We had even arrived in time to make a pot of coffee, shared with a couple from the US who had also made the early morning journey. It wasn’t quite the Rockys, but they seemed content. The spreading light promised a clear day.
“These fingerlings were positively desperate to climb all over dry flies their own size. We weren’t targeting them, but every run we fished saw the water boiling with activity as minute fish hit the surface.”
Not a moment to waste, we trekked back down and deviated from our path up at the junction with the Thredbo track, and were soon on the shores of Lake Cootapatamba. The only sign of movement was due to a pair of swans moseying around the southern shore. Still, we had come this far, and it was worth rigging up to test the waters. Besides, the shallow glacial lake edged by boulders and scrub reminded us all of the Tasmanian high country. So I could at least pretend to be fishing at home. After a wander along the shore lazily casting, and a couple of directionless fly changes, we decided our attention would be better directed at the river. Unsure if trout were able to progress this high up the Swampy Plains River, we decided to wrap up, and wandered back up the trickling creek towards where we had left the trail above. To our immense surprise, as we came up on a pockety section of the tiny creek, we disturbed a little group of fish that were sitting in the cover of an overhanging boulder. We didn’t get a great look, but they looked to be trout. The variability in size supported this theory, with the smallest just a few centimetres, the largest perhaps a hand width. It strongly indicated that the lake below also held fish.
We headed back towards the car to where we had crossed the Snowy the night before, collecting tents and gear along the way. The large schools of tiny fish we had seen the night before were still there, sitting anywhere that wasn’t exposed to direct sun. These fingerlings were positively desperate to climb all over dry flies their own size. We weren’t targeting them, but every run we fished saw the water boiling with activity as minute fish hit the surface. Thankfully, these fish were too small to get hooked. We continued our search of the deeper pockets, targeting shade, depth, flow, and other usual suspects. Either we had exceeded the limit of where the larger fish can exist, or the constant attention our flies were getting from the minnow fish undermined the interest of anything more substantial. Or, of course, it is possible we didn’t tempt or see any larger fish through poor fishing. I prefer the other explanations.
It didn’t take long for us to give up hope on moving upstream from this already high and shallow section. Instead, we ventured back down the track towards Charlotte Pass, and elected to drop down to the river after it was joined by another creek, between Charlotte’s Pass itself and the crossing. Deeper, faster, and better shaded, the water looked much more like the creeks and streams that we knew to hold fish further down the range. The classic combination of a beetle imitation on top (red with a split wing), and a lightly weighted hare and copper was deployed through the first pool, which enticed an eat on the second cast. A small lively fish was quickly landed, photographed, and returned to the water. Definitely a trout. Definitely high altitude. Definitely not the highest.
The day had developed into a pearler. Barely a breath of wind, and bluebird skies, these days are few and far between up top. We worked upstream, endeavouring to cover as much water as possible in the remaining daylight. There was little need for changes to fly or technique, as small, spritely fish were regularly produced from the spots we expected. I guess that’s why a classic combination gets its reputation.
Our group pushed higher and higher, plucking browns from gutters and runs as we progressed. As the afternoon aged fish started rising readily to naturals in each stretch of water, though we weren’t sure what they were eating. It didn’t really matter, as they were happy to come up and smoke our size 12 drys, once they were correctly presented. It made for a good time. The highlight of the day came as I snuck up behind a boulder to target a fish rising just on the other side. Kneeling in about a metre of swift snow melt, propping myself against glacial granite, it dawned on me that this is what it’s about: Blue bird day, ice cold water, and a wild fish looking up. I didn’t care that inches on the fish were far fewer than miles in our legs.
I don’t think we found the pinnacle that day. I suspect that in late summer, the top of the catchment we explored was devoid of trout, or at least they were so few and far between that fishing was impractical. When we dropped in lower, there was an abundance of little fish, most of which we guessed had survived a full seasonal cycle.
So for those seeking an answer, I would guess the highest trout in Australia is between Charlotte Pass and Merrits Creek. I will happily stand corrected if anyone has better intel. Regardless, I fancy the happiest fly fishers in Australia that day were found at about 1,900 metres above, slogging through the riverside scrub under a bright sun, casting to fish you wouldn’t bother weighing, but still wanted to catch.
